


righteous man

by bosbie, Ludicrously_Idiotic



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Demon Pact Baby Yuuri, Embedded Images, Falling In Love, First Meetings, M/M, Magical Realism, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, Priest Victor, Unreliable Narrator, Victor ‘no chill’ Nikiforov is thirsty in all universes no exceptions, dancer yuuri, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-03-03 19:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13347909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosbie/pseuds/bosbie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrously_Idiotic/pseuds/Ludicrously_Idiotic
Summary: Yuuri is a demon pact baby who spends his whole life dealing with it. Victor is a priest, but this isn’t really about him.Except it is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[Art] Hell's Gate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11539083) by [Ludicrously_Idiotic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrously_Idiotic/pseuds/Ludicrously_Idiotic). 



> inspired by [@ludicrouslyidiotic's](http://ludicrouslyidiotic.tumblr.com/) prompt for the yurionicebigbang. this fic isn't officially for that bb since it ended a long fkn time ago lol but will still be accompanied w some illustrations by the artist.
> 
> title from frank ocean's song "Wiseman"

 

The oldest memory Yuuri has is of his mother, bathed in the early morning sunlight that peeked through the onsen’s sliding doors. She sat with her back flush against the wall opposite of him, watching as he played alone in the corner of the living room. His hand was a plane and his mouth was the engine, his clumsy tongue imitating the deafening roar he would hear whenever an overhead airplane flew past the onsen and towards the Hasestu airport. He was a lonely child, and his imagination was his favorite company.  
  
Yuuri remembers thinking that she was beautiful, how the light played with the shapes of her face, the roundness of her cheeks, the color of her eyes. He remembers loving her. His heart beat with a love too large to fit in his tiny chest. He remembers wanting to reach out to her, to rest his head against her hip. Her voice was a soothing comfort, and the tremor he would hear when she said his name went unnoticed to his ears until much later, until he realized that mothers calling to their children were meant to say their name with love and not fear.  
  
She was looking at him as she always did. The distance between the two was, in Yuuri’s childish mind, much wider than it must have been. He wanted to reach out to her. He did.  
  
“Momma,” Yuuri said.  
  
She did not answer. Her lip, then, curled. She said something but he does not remember what it was.  
  
Now, Yuuri is older — and he has learned. Life has made him jaded. Or rather, realistic.  
  
He now knows the expression his mother had on her face that day, and the day after that, and every day in his childhood. It was the same as his sister, and maybe his father before he had died.  
  
It was disgust. And it was, Yuuri learned, what he deserved.

  
  
\-----

 

The shrine in Yuuri’s house dedicated to his father, well-tended and clean of any dust, awaits him when he wakes up in the morning. He kneels in front of it and stares at the picture of him. He’s smiling in it, laugh lines branching from the corners of his eyes.  
  
“Hi, Dad,” Yuuri says.  
  
Bustle of the morning rush bleeds through the thin sliding doors. The chatter from their customers is a white wall of indistinct noise, but Yuuri can still hear his mother talking to his sister over the commotion. It is always this busy, but it hasn’t always been this way.  
  
“Yuuri!” she calls out to him. She sounds happy today. “Yuuri! Could you help me with these?”

His sister snickers, as if she isn’t already thirty.  
  
“I’m coming,” Yuuri replies back. He clasps his hands and bows to the memory of his father. The smell of incense still clings to his lungs as he leaves the room.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” a customer says to him, later, as he helps her to her feet. Yuuri recognizes her from her regular visits, a local woman who treats Yu-topia less as a tourist resort and more as a drinking lounge. Her legs are thin and her wrists are spotted with age, but Yuuri remembers her more by her amiable eyes whenever she comes to their onsen for a glass and an excuse to socialize over a bottle.

“It’s no problem,” he tells her, leading her to the exit where her granddaughter waits to drive them home. She smiles at him when she sees her mother with her hand in the crook of Yuuri’s elbow and compliments Yuuri’s manners.

“A swell young man, he is,” the old woman says, patting Yuuri’s forearm. “And a looker, too. If only you can find a guy half as a catch as he is.”

Yuuri rubs his neck as the granddaughter sputters and blushes, excusing himself after he helps the old woman into her car.

“Who would’ve known,” Mari teases when he reenters the inn. “You’re such a charmer, I wonder why you haven’t settled down yet.”

The main lobby is still filled with commotion, people exiting and entering their rooms and the hot springs. His mother’s back was bothering her so Yuuri will be taking over her duties. It will be a long night.

 _You know why,_ he thinks.

He says, “Guess it runs in the family,” and heads off to find his mother.

Maybe, he ponders as he’s going to bed, he will go to Minako’s tomorrow and help with the weekly beginner’s ballet class she heads; the day he graduated high school she had given him a key to her studio and a permanent invitation as co-instructor. With his legs aching from being up all day, he falls asleep thinking of small, twirling feet and hands grabbing at the dance studio’s encircling hand rail.

 

\-----

 

“You’re a beautiful dancer,” Minako tells him as he’s about to exit her dance studio. She’s staring at him through the wall-length mirror, holding herself in an arabesque without a single flaw in her figure.  
  
Yuuri adjusts his glasses. “Thank you, sensei.”  
  
“I mean it, Yuuri.” Leg down. Other leg up, in front of her now. Attitude, in pointe position. “You have skills. Enough to go pro, I’m sure. I have a few contacts in need of a danseur who can do a pirouette as good as you. What do you say?”  
  
This is not the first time they’ve had this conversation. Every week Minako gives him the same choice with the same casual impulsivity, nonchalant in everything but the eyes. They watch him through the mirror, intent and hopeful. She cares for him, he can feel it — she is family to him in everything but blood.  
  
Yuuri tries to imagine him successful and happy but finds that he can’t. It’s not success and happiness that awaits him. Because he is here, in Hasetsu, and it is here he will die in, because it is here his father died in, and it is his birthright, he knows, for him to do the same.  
  
“Thank you, sensei,” he says again, tone final, and he closes the door behind him with a muted click.

 

\-----

  
  
Yuuri wakes up. He goes to the restroom and does his business. He prays at the shrine for his dead father. He greets his family good morning. The rest of the day waits for him.  
  
It is like this every day, week, month, year, decade, century. He cannot imagine anything different because he doesn’t deserve anything more.

  
\-----

 

Hasetsu is a city in the Saga prefecture, caressed by the salty waves of the Ariake Sea. It was once known for the various hot springs resorts it had to offer, but interest surrounding its one attractive feature eventually waned. For most it would be impossible to point it out on a map. Slowly, Hasetsu resorts began to close down, business drying up with each drop in its annual tourist rates.

Yu-topia has been in the Katsuki family for generations. By the time Mari was five it was the only hot springs standing with its legs nearly giving out underneath its already humble infrastructure. Their parents clamored to find anything they could do to attract customers. Sales, collaborations, local commercials; nothing stuck, and when they stumbled on something they should not have, a whisper of an solution heard only by the hopeless, used only by the damned — their grips were scrambling for leverage at the end of their fraying rope.

They were desperate and Yuuri was only a wayward thought in their minds. Yu-topia was all they had. Yuuri does not blame them for what they did.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The only church in Hasetsu resides on the outskirts of its borders, a Christian church that has about as many regular attendees as Jesus had apostles. It’s a good half hour drive away that Yuuri’s mother faithfully takes every Sunday, knees bouncing as she sits patiently on the passenger seat of Yuuri’s car. With everything in Yuuri’s life confined within a single building he doesn’t drive very often, so he looks forward to the weekly pilgrimage despite never having stepped foot into a church in his life.

It’s customary for Yuuri to drop his mother off at the beginning of the road that leads to the church entrance, leaving her to walk the rest of the way. It’s comprised of rough gravel and is badly tended to, and Yuuri does not want to deal with the damage it would do to his tires.

But her back, it’s been bothering her for days now, and Yuuri hates the feeling that churns in his gut whenever she grimaces in pain. So he takes the turn that leads them to a small parking lot dedicated to those attending mass.

“Yuuri,” she says. A warning.

“It’s fine,” he tells her, a trail of sweat already travelling the length of his spine.

They are the only car there when he parks, and he checks the time to find that they’re early. He hears the car door open, and he turns to find his mother already halfway out her seat.

“Ah, let — let me help you, Mom,” he says, rushing to her side as he ignores the flippant wave of her hand.

“I can _walk,_ Yuuri,” she sighs, but she slides her arm around his proffered elbow anyway.

“Good to know,” he says, teasing, distracting. His breath may be a bit too sharp. The walk towards the steps to the double door church entrance is short but his legs do not tell the same story. He doesn’t catch the figure rushing towards them before it calls to his mother.

“Hiroko! Glad you could make it!” the man greets in accented Japanese as he props one of the doors wider open and rushes down the wooden perron. His eyes are as bright as his smile, and he has a foreigner's nose. 

Yuuri’s stomach drops. He has never been this close to him before.

“Father Nikiforov,” she says, one of those rare grins Yuuri loves so much staining her lips. “I hope I’m not too late?”

“Quite the opposite, in fact,” Father Nikiforov laughs. His hair reminds Yuuri of light refracting against the ocean. “You’re always so early, I began to worry when you weren’t here by the time Yakov and I started the prep for mass.”

Yuuri peers over Father Nikiforov’s shoulder, past the perron. The inside of the church is humble and congenial, light from the stained glass windows projecting a kaleidoscope of colors over the cracked wood of the pews. It’s beautiful. Holy, even.

“Mom,” he says, throat dry.

“Oh! Where are my manners,” she says, misinterpreting Yuuri’s choked out plea. “Father, this is my son, Yuuri. Yuuri, this is Father Nikiforov, one of the priests here.”

Father Nikiforov’s stare slides over to him. His stare might have caught when they reached Yuuri’s eyes, but Yuuri is just imagining things. “Yuuri,” he repeats, a lilt in his voice. He says his name in a way he’s never heard before, and it almost makes Yuuri shiver. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Yuuri. I don’t think I’ve seen you in mass? With your mother being as steadfast as she is in attending, I find this surprising.”

“He doesn’t go to church,” his mother explains for him when Yuuri’s vocal chords don’t cooperate.

“I see.” He nods in understanding. “That explains why I haven’t seen you around before.”

But Yuuri, at least, has seen him around before. From his windshield, at the end of the road, a speck dressed in a cassock that greets his mother every Sunday; the local soup kitchen, the center of a laughing table, always full; the bible session his mother hosts at the resort every other week, attracting curious attention with a charming grin, accompanied with another man — older, wide where Father Nikiforov is narrow, dressed in similar wear: Father Nikiforov has been in the corner of Yuuri’s eye ever since he was assigned this small, worn-down Christian church in a town that has never given his god a second thought —

Maybe his mother can feel the clamminess of his skin, can see how damp the hair on the nape of his neck is, because she says, “He’s a busy bee. In fact, I think he has somewhere to go?” She looks up at him questioningly. Yuuri has never loved her more.

“Yeah,” he confirms, too quick.

“A shame,” Father Nikiforov says, sounding genuinely disappointed. “Well, I hope to see you here again, Yuuri. As part of the congregation, perhaps?”

He’s only been standing here for enough time to have a short conversation, but Yuuri’s skin is already beginning to itch. His lungs feel like he’s rushed through dozens of back-to-back triathlons. He hasn’t even been inside yet. If he does — he doesn’t know what will happen. Maybe his skin will melt off. His bones will disintegrate. Help fertilize the dirt that surrounds the holy building he was never meant to step into in the first place, as penance.

“Maybe,” Yuuri replies, his voice clammy, and Father Nikiforov’s eyes — blue, a metallic blue — they sharpen. A little bit, so minute Yuuri almost doesn’t catch it. In — realization? Suspicion? Yuuri can’t figure it out. It’s not a trustworthy look, he thinks. But Yuuri is fine with untrustworthy, he’s used to it, and having it come from someone who has dedicated himself to His teachings and spreading His word — well, Yuuri isn’t surprised.

“Later then,” Father Nikiforov says, and Yuuri’s mother transfers from Yuuri’s elbow to the priest’s.

“Later,” Yuuri repeats, because apparently, being so near such sacred grounds makes him unable to speak phrases longer than one word.

Before turning, Father Nikiforov stills for a moment, continuing to stare back at him. Yuuri is unnerved. That is, until Father Nikiforov smiles.

“Good day, Yuuri,” he says, before escorting Yuuri’s mother up the stairs, through the double doors, down the middle aisle.

Yuuri, with his itching skin and burning lungs, stands there at the church entrance. Looking at nothing, unfocused; looking at everything, all-encompassing. Maybe this ability came from his birthright. Or he just hasn’t done it before, didn't know he could before now.

When the priest smiled his eyes crinkled, deep and warm, like Yuuri's father.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visit the [author](http://giftwrappingpaper.tumblr.com/) and [artist's](http://ludicrouslyidiotic.tumblr.com/) tumblrs and let us kno if you want a regular update schedule lol


	3. Chapter 3

The conversion of Yuuri’s mother had caused a bit of a stir in Hasetsu’s small gossip circle; they found it curious how sudden it was, how close it happened to the time of his father’s tragic passing.

“Is it because of grief?” Yuuri, a small child then, remembers hearing from one of Yu-topia’s local customers. “A form of coping?”

“It will pass,” another dismissed, observing his mother as she arrives back to the resort from midnight mass.

But it didn’t. Every Sunday, every holy day of obligation, she would go to the wayward church, drive herself there until Yuuri was old enough to do it for her. Say her prayers before every meal. Run her fingertips against the worn beads of her rosary. She is devout, but also kind, not forcing her children to follow her footsteps towards absolution. Neither of them did.

“Why does she do it?” Yuuri asked Mari, looking on as his mother thanked Minako again for watching over the children; the way Minako always does when Yuuri’s mother attended congregation, or those sullen days when she couldn't get out of bed. Her eyes were puffy from being awake for so long, and Yuuri wondered when was the last time she slept. He has never known a mother who did not go to church, but he knew that it was not common in their city, in their country, and certainly not to this degree.

That day was one of the few in Yuuri’s childhood where Mari could tolerate him. In his younger years he didn’t have an older sister. More like a ghost of one, one he saw and even talked to sometimes, when she felt like it. She was only a kid then, like him, but to Yuuri she was much older, carrying herself much more maturely than those her age. And she looked at him differently, too, then big sisters did to their siblings — like a stranger. Like he wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Because of you,” Mari said, accusatory. Yuuri felt his shoulders hunch up. “It’s because of you.”

“Why is it my fault?” he asked uncertainly.

She sneered. Yuuri spiraled. There was something filthy on her tongue. A child’s anger is always the most scorching. “When  _ you _ weren’t here she didn’t need to ask for forgiveness all the time. That’s all on you.”

He didn’t know, then, what he was. He didn’t know, then, why his sister pretended he wasn’t there, why his mother would look at him with sad eyes during the times when she could stand the sight of him. Only Minako treated him with a gentle yet ever-present touch. He connected the dots later.

But he felt it. He did. In his mind, searching for answers, he knew they had reason for it, for everything.

He was young. Mari’s was the only explanation given to him, the only explanation that could’ve made sense. And he would find out that it was, in a way, true.

“Okay,” he said, because it  _ was _ okay, it was  _ fine. _

 

\-----

 

When he arrives home with his mother after mass, Mari greets them with a matter-of-fact, “Some kid threw up in the hot tub,” and a towel whip to Yuuri’s ass. She merely smiles when he rubs the sore spot where she hit, mumbling under his breath as he heads to the hot tub to clean up the mess.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Yuuri waits for the murmur of activity to die down before going in to tidy up the lounge area, knowing that his mother’s bible study, despite its few participants, can leave a mess in its aftermath. Her church friends — a student who travelled overseas to study here and a family of three — make up the small group, diligently meeting without fail to talk about whatever they talk about. Yuuri tries not to eavesdrop.

(Maybe if he does, his ears will fall off. He doesn't know if they will, nor does he want to find out.)

But when he enters the room, it isn’t empty. Father Nikiforov hums as he sips on a drink, a tuneless melody that would make flowers wilt. He’s in casual wear instead of his usual cassock and his long legs are folded underneath him in a comfortable kneel. His back is curved and not at all priestly. For Yuuri, it’s a first to see him like this.

Yuuri doesn’t move from where he stands underneath the door frame that separates the lounge from the rest of the resort. But he must’ve had made a sound, because Father Nikiforov turns around.

“Yuuri!” he says, pleasantly taken aback. “What a surprise. Don’t mind me, just had the thought to stay a while after the bible study, unwind a bit.”

“Sorry for interrupting you,” Yuuri apologizes, backing away with his hands on the sliding door to close it. “I was gonna clean up a bit. Sorry.”

“Oh please, please.” Father Nikiforov beckons him with the hand not holding his glass. “Join me.”

Whenever she’s given the opportunity Minako always praises Yuuri’s dancing; she says it’s like watching waves crash against a shore, not precise but deadly with its presence, keeping the attention of passersby as it smoothes down the jagged edges of boulders. But in this moment he feels not like a powerful wave, but a weak trickle running across the weathered groove of a pebble, struggling to fight against the current of a river as he stumbles to sit across from watchful eyes.

“Careful,” he warns, and Yuuri’s ears burn in shame from his inability to _sit on the fucking floor._

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.”

Yuuri looks up. Father Nikiforov stares back, face as truthful as ever.

He holds up his drink. “It’s probably a bit odd to offer you a drink in your own home, but I could pour you a glass if you’d like?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says. Then, hesitantly: “Alcohol? I thought…”

Anticipating Yuuri’s unasked question, Victor snorts, but not in a malicious way. “The vows priests make during ordination are poverty, celibacy, and obedience. Nothing to do with enjoying a drink every now and then.”

“That’s,” Yuuri says, and he chuckles, bubbling out of him without his concession. “That’s. Okay. Wow.”

“Not what you expected, wasn’t it?” And Father Nikiforov, in the most un-priestlike fashion, winks. Playful, not at all flirty, but Yuuri is sure no priest should ever _wink,_ no matter how young and attractive and kind the priest may be. “Not a lot of people seem to get this, but a man isn’t completely wiped of personality after donning the robes.”

“I get that,” Yuuri says, and he watches as Father Nikiforov’s eyes soften. “I’m not here to antagonize you, Father.”

Father Nikiforov blanches in distaste at the title, wiping his hand on his thigh to get rid of the condensation from his sweating glass. “Please, none of that. Call me Victor.”

“I don’t want to be rude,” Yuuri says.

“You’re not. I can feel my already light hair greying whenever someone calls me that, and I’m nowhere close yet to thirty.”

From afar, Victor (because that is his name, and Victor wants Yuuri to call him by his name) and his hair have always been the shiniest thing in Yuuri’s peripheral vision. An anomaly, a short length of lovingly taken care of locks that are of a color more commonly seen on those much older than a youthful, amicable foreigner.

“I’ve always wondered about that,” Yuuri muses out loud. “Your hair. Is that. Is that a real thing?”

Victor blinks in surprise, and Yuuri silently wishes for the flames of hell to drag him back where he came from, where he belongs, because he is a fucking travesty who doesn’t deserve second chances.

“That’s,” Victor says, not unlike Yuuri a minute ago, before throwing his head back and laughing, a full belly laugh, loud enough to have Mari pop in from wherever she was to see what the racket is all about. It’s like he takes the rest of Yuuri’s breath away from his lungs, snaking it out through his throat and mouth for his own, to fuel his boisterous laughter.

Yuuri is not at all bothered. He likes the scene it makes.

“Oh, _Yuuri,”_ Victor says in between heaving breaths, wiping a snickering tear from his eye. “Yuuri, I think we are going to see each other much more often.”

Yuuri feels the corner of his lip lift into a grin. The back of his head tingles, as does the rest of his body. But not how it was like at the church — this time, it sends through his veins a pulsing glow instead of a bleak static. Victor is a holy man and Yuuri isn’t; that must be the reason for his thudding heart.

And because of that, Yuuri also knows that he shouldn’t seek Victor out again. He doesn’t know the repercussions of what being in the prolonged presence of a man of God could do to Yuuri’s skin.

But Victor wants to see him again, and Yuuri cannot tell him no. Victor wants to see him again. Yuuri wouldn't mind it if they were to.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

True to his word, Yuuri begins to see Victor everywhere: an undeniable shift of each other’s axes, adjusted to accommodate the other in content coexistence. Victor visits the onsen much more often as the weeks pass. Yuuri sometimes escorts his mother to the church entrance instead of dropping her off from the car, ignoring the dread nipping the soles of his feet and the flame brewing in the pit of his gut — only for the chance to talk with him, no matter how short the time Victor can allot for him is.

His new friendship does not go unnoticed; his mother’s eyes widen the first time she catches their genial rapport. At first she is wary, pulling Yuuri closer as they walk back to the car with what Yuuri can only describe as a mother’s concern. He buzzes with the thought.

“Do you feel alright?” she asks, wiping at his sweat-dotted brow.

“I’m fine, Mom.” His breathing is already beginning to settle, and he no longer feels as faint. In an effort to encourage circulation he opens and closes his fists, where his fingers had started to gnarl. He had been too close to the church for too long; he must not do the same mistake again. 

She pauses, and Yuuri unlocks the car and opens her door before settling into the driver’s seat. “You two seem to get along,” she observes.

Yuuri has never felt so at ease with someone in his life. “A bit,” he says. He starts the car, and its familiar hum underneath his feet lulls his throbbing head.

“Are you two friends?”

“I’d say so.”

Yuuri reverses out of the parking space and exits the church lot. “And you feel — okay,” she reiterates.

Yuuri, eyes still on the road, frowns. “Yeah, Mom.”

“With him? Father Nikiforov?”

_ Oh.  _ That’s what she means. “Being near him doesn’t — it doesn’t do anything to me, nothing I can feel. We’re friends.”

“Okay.” She runs her hands down her thighs, not looking at him. “I’m happy for you, Yuuri.”

It’s times like this where Yuuri is hit with how little his mother knows about him, about the conditions his parent’s decision created for him and him alone. The small, trailing crumbs he knows of his unique situation stems from life experience (the day he was first hit by the confusingly painful sensation of being near the church building — the instinctive, primitive part of his mind growling  _ no _ at the prospect of going inside — was enlightening to say the least), and not from anything his mother has talked to him about.

Because they don’t talk about the important things. They never have.

It irks him a little, how tight-lipped his mother can be. How they never talk. But Yuuri has, over the years, come to terms with how useless it is to hold a grudge.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says.

In regards to Victor, Mari is all nudging elbows and sly smiles. “So you’ve actually made a friend,” she starts as they stand side-by-side, having been given the duty of washing dishes after the dinner rush.

“I have  _ friends,”  _ Yuuri defends.

“Sure you do. Friends. Plural,” she says, flippant, handing him a mug to dry. “And a priest, no less.” She snorts. “The fucking irony.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says.

“What,” she says, and seeing his blank expression as he wipes the mug with a towel, backtracks. “I didn’t mean — I wasn’t — fuck.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You’ve said worse.”

“I did, but that was — before. A long time ago.”

“You’ve never kept how you felt about me a secret,” Yuuri says. And he’s not bitter about it, not anymore. Because it’s useless to hold a grudge, especially when no one is to blame but himself.

“Yuuri,” Mari sighs, rubbing the back of her neck in exasperation, “you’re my little brother, okay? When I was a kid I was an idiot and a jerk, but — you’re family. I don’t _ hate _ you.”

_ But you should,  _ Yuuri thinks, grateful but aware of her lie,  _ but you should. _

Minako is the most skeptical about Yuuri’s new friend, hesitantly bringing it up as he stretches in preparation for the beginner’s ballet class he’s instructing in the next half hour.

“I don’t know,” she says, looking down at the wooden flooring. A peculiar sight coming from someone as proud and unflappable as she is. “Isn’t it just so coincidental? One of the only Christian priests in the entire city pops up out of nowhere and decides to befriend you. Very odd.”

“He doesn’t know,” Yuuri tells her, watching himself from the mirrored wall. “I haven’t told him. Mom hasn’t, either.”

“What if he just  _ knows?” _ Minako suggests. “Maybe his priestly senses can pick up the, I don’t know,  _ demonic _ waves you give off?”

There is a conspiratory hush in her tone. Out of those aware of Yuuri’s circumstance — all four of them including himself — she is the one who treats it the most lightheartedly, with the least gravity. Despite everything, despite being called _ demonic, _ the closest term Yuuri can think of to describe himself —  he appreciates her carefree attitude towards it all.

“Or something,” she clumsily adds when Yuuri doesn’t say anything in reply. “I don’t really know how this works. Only of what you’ve told me.”

“None of us do,” Yuuri says, something barbed hanging off the edge of his words. He did not want them to come out that way, but sometimes he cannot control his wagging tongue.

Minako’s shoulders slump at that. “Maybe,” she says, hesitant, “maybe if you and your mother —”

“She won’t,” he interrupts her, not wanting to hear the sharp truth he’s had to live with for over two decades. “She doesn’t tell me anything. About me, about Dad, about what happened. I’ve tried, but she won’t. You know that.”

“She needs time,” Minako says, but there is frustration in her voice as well.

“I gave her time,” Yuuri tells her, “I gave her everything. Nothing’s going to change. Can I have this, at least? I’m not doing anything wrong, having a friend.”

Yuuri can hear Minako swallow. He hopes he hasn’t completely soured the air; he had planned to stay in the dance studio until heading back home to help prepare for the dinner rush.

“Of course, Yuuri,” she says, turning away. The back of a embittered loved one is a familiar sight to Yuuri’s eyes, but it hurts just the same.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

“You dance?” Victor asks, doing an excellent job at not helping Yuuri wipe down the last of the recently vacated tables. Outside the moon chases away the last rays of sun, and Victor should not be here. No one should be here, because Yuuri’s mother had decided to close down the lounge area early today. That does not deter Victor from making himself comfortable in a space that is not his and drinking wine he did not purchase. 

But Yuuri does not tell him to leave, as he does not want him to. He enjoys the company.

“A bit,” Yuuri says, setting empty glasses on the serving tray. “A family friend of ours is a ballet teacher. I help her out every now and then at the studio, instruct a few courses whenever I have the time.”

“You must be very good.”

“I’m alright.” Yuuri is damn near prodigious and he knows it. There is a reason Minako jumps at any opportunity to offer Yuuri various gigs, fueled by her numerous connections from her days as a principal in a world renowned ballet company. The fluidity of his movements, how easy it is for rhythm to seep into his mind and flow through his bloodstream — anyone who sees him dance knows it, too.

He had once mentioned it to a guy he was seeing; it was their third date and Yuuri was sure he could fall in love with him, was already in love with the way his eyes turned electric in the right light. The guy called Yuuri cocky and advised him to not be too full of himself because it was unattractive. They broke up a month later, and that piece of advice was the only good thing Yuuri took out of that relationship.

“Would you dance for me some time? I’d love to see you dance.”

“I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“Not at all. I’m not as busy as you may think I am. And besides,” Victor conspires as he leans forwards, eyes bright. “I’d make time for you.”

“Uh.” Yuuri looks down at the table he’s been wiping far too long to be efficient. He wonders if Victor knows what his naturally coy nature does to him. “Thanks.”

“But really,” Victor continues, as Yuuri walks over to the next table, “it can get a bit slow around here. As you might already know, we don’t get many churchgoers in these parts, and the workload we do get is shared between Yakov and I. You know Yakov, yes?”

“I know of him.” Yuuri frowns, thinking of the man’s square face and perpetual downturned lip. “He’s a bit...intimidating.”

“Oh, it’s all an act,” Victor dismisses. “He’s a total softie underneath all that scruff. He did raise me, after all. Have I told you about this?”

Yuuri shakes his head, taken back at what Victor’s words implies. “Raise you. He’s your father?”

“Not by blood,” Victor clarifies. “My parents died when I was very young, so I was a — what’s the word?”

“Orphan?” Yuuri supplies.

Victor snaps his fingers. “Yes, orphan! You know Yuuri, our conversations have really helped me with my grasp of the language outside of the usual spiel during mass.” He laughs and says, “But anyway, yes, Yakov took me in after that, raised me with the friars. He’s the reason why I am who I am today.

“So don’t be intimidated by him,” he concludes, fond, “just think about how that grumpy old man had to deal with me in my teenage years and you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Yuuri says, chuckling. “You were raised with friars, you say?”

“Ever since I was a child,” Victor confirms. “Definitely was treated as one. They trained me as an altar boy the first week I moved in. I was allowed to attend the parish school, after that. Catechism class, that was a lot of fun. They even gathered donations for me to attend seminary, bless their hearts. I wouldn’t be here without them.”

“It’s like you were born to be a priest,” Yuuri comments.

Bred, rather. But he doesn’t say that out loud.

Victor laughs again. It’s muted this time, subdued by the observation. “It’s,” he says before stopping, sparing Yuuri a glance. “This is the only life I’ve ever known.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. He watches as Victor flicks his gaze down to his drink, the glass slicking his hands with condensation.

“What about you, Yuuri?” Victor then asks, eager to change the subject. Yuuri balks, hands stilling mid-wipe. “I never do see your father around.”

“Ah.” Yuuri clears his throat. “He’s dead.”

“Oh.” Victor blinks, first in confusion, then in horror. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry Yuuri, I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have brought it up if I had known —”

“Don't apologize,” Yuuri interrupts. “You didn’t know.”

“Well, I should’ve,” Victor mutters, petulant at himself. “I’ve known Hiroko for, what. Nearly two years? And I haven’t even  _ heard _ about this.”

“We don’t usually talk about it,” Yuuri says.

“And you don’t need to,” Victor says. “But — if I may ask. How did he pass on?”

There’s a pull in Yuuri’s chest that makes him want to tell Victor the truth — he is a holy man, a man of God, maybe he could  _ do _ something — but he bites his tongue. This is his burden, not Victor’s, not Minako’s, not his sister’s, not his mother’s. He doesn’t need anyone else to shift the burdensome weight onto.

Yuuri is a liar. But at least he does so with good intentions.

“His heart, he had problems with his heart,” is his answer. He cannot look into his eyes as Victor says his condolences. “It was a long time ago, I haven't ever actually met him. It was — it’s not a big deal. You don’t need to apologize.”

“Yuuri,” Victor says. Yuuri ignores how simply hearing Victor say his name makes his sick heart and stomach lurch. Victor stands up and walks to where Yuuri is staring at the wooden surface of the table, and kneels next to him, a comforting warmth Yuuri cannot bear to let himself turn towards. “I know you don’t share the same faith as your mother and I, so I won’t offer any words of comfort with that in mind. But I also know what it feels like, to lose a father, and I know it’s not easy. So could you give yourself some credit? Nothing's your fault, you couldn’t have done anything, and you’re strong, so strong.”

Yuuri feels ill. Victor doesn’t know anything, and Yuuri is fooling him into believing in a Yuuri that does not exist.

But Yuuri does not tell him to leave, as he does not want him to. He enjoys the company too much.

Unannounced, in a way no two people that are who they are should be, Victor drapes an arm over Yuuri’s shoulders to ward off the sudden cold he feels, and everything — the bustle of his family in the kitchen, the distant city sounds through open windows — everything seems so much quieter.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sometimes Yuuri lays awake at night and ponders about how exactly he killed his father. It’s a habitual fantasy he developed after his sister, who carried a haunted look in her eyes despite only barely being a teenager at the time, told him of the way he was born, hushed and conspiratory as he stared up at the ceiling of his unlit bedroom. He doesn’t know exactly how it happened because he does not remember, but he can imagine.  
  
Maybe it happened quickly. Maybe his father dropped dead the second Yuuri was ready to take his first breath, quick and painless. Through the infinite possibilities of magic, Yuuri popped out of his father like a tumor, or a kidney stone, or a bead of sweat. Demons are a fickle bunch, he knows, and they like to have their fun — having his father carry Yuuri despite the workings of biology supports this notion.  
  
And, after, despite trading his life for another, his conscious was clear, comfortable in knowing that the ultimate sacrifice was required in giving a chance to his own blood, his son, his kin. That he had known from the beginning this was what he had signed up for when he shook hands with those creeping in his shadow. He took one look at Yuuri, crying at the unfamiliar feeling of oxygen filling his fluttering heart, and thought that yes, Yuuri was worth it. He died with a smile on his face and Yuuri, his child, in his arms.  
  
But maybe it didn’t. It’s all wishful thinking, of course, hoping for Yuuri’s father’s death to have been a peaceful one. Demons are a fickle bunch but they are also very cruel, and Yuuri’s father couldn’t have been an exception for their lust for grief, their craving for it.  
  
Maybe Yuuri’s father was helping his mother with the inn. Business was kind to them after years of long nights with nothing to show for it, and they were on the cusp of getting used to the feeling of financial success. He had a smile on his face and stole a brush of a touch against Yuuri’s mother’s neck, tender and loving.  
  
Maybe, during the day, he stopped. Turned to Yuuri’s mother. In his kindest fantasy, no one else was in the room.  
  
“What is it, dear?” Yuuri’s mother might have asked.  
  
He opened his mouth but no words came out, only a low groan as he sank to his knees and then to his side, clutching his chest with sweat dotting his forehead. Maybe he cried. Screamed. Yuuri isn’t sure which he favors.  
  
And maybe his mother began to hear a squelching sound. Perhaps a slurp. Tearing of flesh. Smacking of lips. Breaking of bone. The only concrete fact his mother has confirmed about Yuuri’s birth, much later, is that he was born with a full set of teeth.  
  
And with his teeth, Yuuri climbed out of the gaping wound he teared through his father’s stomach, red and slick and feral, the scent of iron emanating from his every pore. His jaw clicked as his mouth chewed. There may have been a sliver of a glistening sickness caught in his canines.  
  
Maybe his father was still alive after that, at least for a moment. His final senses filled with Yuuri’s mother’s horrified screams, wet warmth travelling through his clothes, the metallic taste staining his tongue, and the horrifying realization that the thing crawling out of him was his son. He died in terror, with the harsh reality in his brain that in signing a deal with a demon, he himself had brought something inhuman into the earth from his own flesh.  
  
It’s all just speculation, of course: hearsay from an aloof older sister and telling silence from a mother who couldn't look him in the eyes until he was old enough to notice. Yuuri knows which scenario he prefers. But he also knows of the passing glances from his family when they think he doesn’t see, the distance they still keep — and he does not try to fool himself into thinking that he can bring anything other to this world than violence.

 

\-----

 

“What am I?” Yuuri asked, curled around himself in the darkness of his room, his small hands gripping his kneecaps. No one, especially his mother, ever answered his questions — no one except for his sister, who was too fuelled by her aggrievement towards her broken family to soften her words.

“A monster,” she answered simply, and her frank tone hit Yuuri harder than any punch could.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm nearing the end of wat i've prewritten so this might be the last update for a bit. 
> 
> my goal is to finish this fic before summer ends!! 500 words a day!! but given my track record that doesn't seem likely lol
> 
> artist: [ludicrouslyidiotic](http://ludicrouslyidiotic.tumblr.com)  
> author: [giftwrappingpaper](http://giftwrappingpaper.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

Yuuri had a dog once. His family had adopted him for Yuuri’s twelfth birthday. He was a small, spry thing, only a few weeks old, and Yuuri had fallen in love with him the moment he entered the resort building swaddled in a blanket and carried in his mother’s arms. 

The puppy loved to nestle in Yuuri’s mother’s lap as she read the newspaper, and the crook of Mari’s elbow as she snuck out to smoke a cigarette she had made a habit to grab from one of the inner city’s vending machines without their mother’s knowledge. He would run around, scratching the tatami mats and the wooden flooring as he enamored guests with adorable pitter patter and his constant need for attention from regulars to strangers alike.

The moment the puppy saw Yuuri he barked, loud and shrill and never ending. His hackles raised and his tiny lip snarled. He wouldn’t stop barking until Yuuri left the room. Yuuri was never able to hold him as the puppy would never let Yuuri touch him. He would try to bite Yuuri’s fingers if he tried.

A month after the puppy first entered the resort building Yuuri’s mother returned him to the pound. “He’ll be happier there,” she reasoned to a young Yuuri, who had come home from his first day of junior high school to hear the devastating news.

Yuuri was young, but he was not stupid. The puppy was happy here, he knew. He was happy with anyone he met, as he was a friendly dog. He just wasn’t happy with Yuuri.

 

\-----

 

Victor visits Yuuri at the onsen as he is wont to do, but today he doesn’t come alone. A large poodle trots besides him, its tongue lolling from the corner of its mouth in a state of content bliss. Yuuri’s heart sings at the sight of both of them.

As an introduction Victor says, “This little lady is my dear Makkachin. We’ve been best friends since I was a boy. I think of myself as a pious man, but getting her through customs and the quarantine process was the one thing I’ve let myself be selfish on.”

Yuuri crouches down so he’s eye-level with Makkachin. She pants and does not back away. “Hello,” he greets her, heart thudding from both nerves and giddy excitement.

Makkachin barks. Sniffs his hair, then licks him on the cheek. Yuuri is already in love.

“Oh, I think she likes you,” Victor remarks with glee, his hand absently swinging Makkachin’s leash back and forth.

Yuuri lets himself run a hand through her thick, curly fur. It is the same color as the naked branches of the onsen’s surrounding trees during winter, his favorite season. “She’s precious,” Yuuri says, continuing to stroke her head. “We had a poodle before, when I was a kid. He was smaller, though.”

“You have excellent taste in dog breeds,” Victor tells him, and Yuuri ducks his head at the peculiar but nonetheless flattering compliment. “Is it alright if I let her in the building? She’s too old and well-behaved to run amuck, and I’d love to show her around my new favorite place.”

“Of course,” Yuuri says, and he leads them inside.

 

\-----

 

“Oh,” Yuuri hears from behind him, and when he turns around he finds his mother lurking near the lounge entrance, watching as Yuuri gives Makkachin a good scratch. “Father. Yuuri.”

“Hiroko!” Victor greets her with a friendly wave. “Please, sit. The others will be coming soon, yes?”

Hiroko takes a seat besides Yuuri, who’s watching fondly as Makkachin’s leg kicks with pleasure from his loving belly rubs. “And who is this?” she asks curiously.

“Makkachin,” Yuuri answers. “She’s Victor’s. You can pet her if you want, she likes the attention.”

And she does. Makkachin barks in delight at the amount of spotlight she’s procured. “She’s lovely,” his mother says, a smile appling her cheeks.

Victor says, “I dare say that Makkachin has a soft spot for Katsukis. Why, she’s taken a liking to you just as fast as she did to Yuuri!”

“Really?” his mother says. She casts a quick glance at Yuuri. “Is that so.”

“She’s a friendly dog,” is Yuuri’s answer, a sudden chill frosting down his neck.

“A lot of dogs are,” his mother replies.

“Um,” Victor says. “Am I missing something?”

Yuuri had almost forgotten he was here. “No, of course not,” he tells him. Then, when a member of their bible study walks in, he stands and says, “I gotta go.”

Maybe Yuuri is just imagining it, but Victor almost looks dejected at Yuuri’s abrupt departure. “You can stay if you want,” he offers. “Nothing wrong with listening in.”

Yuuri turns to gauge his mother’s reaction. “You can always stay, you’re always welcome,” she says. But her tone doesn’t share the same story.

“I have work,” he says. A poor excuse, but it gets Victor off his hair. “Thank you anyways. Oh, excuse me, Phichit.”

Phichit, the youngest member of the bible study, claps Yuuri on the back and says, “Don’t worry about it, bro. What’s got you so quick to leave?”

Yuuri steadies himself from accidentally bumping shoulders with Phichit and his sudden appearance, giving him a grin in return. “Just work. You know how it is.”

Phichit rolls his eyes. It’s been at least a couple of months since Yuuri has last seen him do that. Being a nursing student at one of the more prestigious universities in Japan swallows up a lot of your free time. “You’re  _ always _ working. Hey, we haven’t been able to sit down and chat in forever. Text me when you’re free so we can catch up.”

Yuuri has always liked Phichit; ever since he transferred from Thailand to attend the inner city university he seemed adamant to at least get to know him, and Yuuri is confident enough in this stage of their relationship to call him a friend. “Of course, Phichit. I miss talking to you.”

Phichit smiles at that, his teeth white and straight. “I miss talking to you, too.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school has been kicking my entire ass. this update has been written since may and i was waiting until i've pre-written more to post it (i have only 2 more chapters stockpiled after this)... but i haven't written anything for this fic in months and i feel bad so here you go


	9. Chapter 9

With people coming and going at the resort, Yuuri has always been used to overhearing bits and pieces of conversations he should not be privy to. Over time the wisps of murmured words have become white noise, as irrelevant as the hum of a car engine, or the chirp of a bird.

Minako, at some point, must have realized that Yuuri spent more time at her dance studio than at home, because she confronted his mother in a secluded part of the onsen she must have thought no one would walk by at the wrong moment. But Yu-topia was, for all intents and purposes, Yuuri’s home, and he thought nothing of it when he walked past a small room he associated with dust and unused furniture.

That is, until, he heard the whispered hisses of his dancing instructor from the room’s closed door.

“You _cannot_ keep doing this, Hiroko,” Minako, the most angry he every heard her, snapped. “Yuuri is not something you can ignore. He’s your son, for Christ's sake.”

Yuuri stopped in his tracks. Leaned closer. He was only eight and his footsteps were light, so they couldn’t have heard him walk down the empty hallway.

“I don’t ignore him,” his mother defended herself. She sounded cornered.

“Oh, don’t give me that shit.” Yuuri clapped his hands over his mouth at the foul language. “You think I haven’t noticed? How Yuuri feels like a damn outsider in his own home? I probably see him more often than you do. He’s your _son,_ Hiroko, not a burden.”

“I know,” his mother said, her voice an opening door with rusted hinges.

“Look,” Minako said, her words softening, “What you’ve been through is _terrible._ I know that. I can’t even begin to try and understand. But you shouldn’t take this out on him, okay? None of this is his fault.”

A pause. Yuuri’s bare toes curled against the wooden floor.

“Every time I look at him, I can’t help but think of what I’ve done to have all of this happen,” his mother confessed. “I can’t help but think about what I’ve lost. I can’t help but think about Toshiya.”

With a lump in his throat, Yuuri backed away until the room was far away, making sure his steps were extra silent. Later he would bump into Mari, who ignored him, as she always did.

His mother had been using her misery voice. She only used it when talking about him.

 

\-----

 

“So you and Father Nikiforov are friends now?” Phichit asks, leaning back and taking a long sip of his coffee. He’s the only person Yuuri knows who takes his coffee completely black. “Like, actual buddies who hang out on their free time purely because they enjoy each other’s company?”

“That’s the definition of friendship, yes,” Yuuri says. He wipes his mouth with a napkin before taking another bite of his pastry. “I don’t know why you sound so suspicious. But — well. You’re not the only one who is. So it must be a pretty easy thing to get suspicious about.”

“I’m not suspicious. More surprised, I guess. Because of who the two of you are.” Yuuri’s stomach drops, until Phichit adds, “I didn’t know priests could have _friends,”_ and he relaxes the muscles he had unconsciously tensed.

 _How could he know?_ Yuuri thinks, internally scoffing at his unfounded fear. And so he lets it go.

“Why wouldn’t they be able to have friends?” Yuuri asks.

Phichit quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Some priestly vows or some shit. And, well,” he adds, snide, “Christian men in general aren’t the most friendly bunch, trust me.”

Yuuri thinks to himself, not for the first time, that for someone devout enough to go to a bi-weekly bible study, Phichit doesn’t seem much like a religious man.

“I don’t know why I always have to remind you of this,” he tells him, “but _you’re_ an unfriendly Christian man.”

Phichit dismisses Yuuri’s accusation with another sip of his drink.

Yuuri continues, tone light as to not offend, “If it’s because you’re jealous, don’t worry about it. I’ll be sure to fit enough time for you in my schedule.”

“It’s not _that.”_   Phichit snorts, and Yuuri fondly realizes how much he’s missed this. “But yeah, please make sure to do that. I wouldn’t dream of missing out the rare opportunity that is having a coffee with the illustrious Yuuri Katsuki.”  

They laugh with each other. Yuuri’s heart swells. He’s so lucky. He shouldn’t have this — he doesn’t deserve to — but he does.

“Truth be told,” he says, “it should be the other way around. You should be the one making time for me. You have school, and I’m just — here. You don’t always have to wait up for me. I don’t know why you do.”

“Oh, Yuuri.” Phichit leans back in his chair and cocks his head at him, nothing but kindness on his face, the glint in his eyes and the sliver of white peeking through his warm smile all the more lovely. “You know. I’ll always be waiting for you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have only a couple more chapters stockpiled, so hopefully i can get back to writing for this fic when winter break comes around.


	10. Chapter 10

Yuuri first properly meets Father Feltsman when picking his mother up from Sunday mass, the older man tending to flowers that pepper the church’s sorry excuse of a front garden. Yuuri walks up to him with a churning in his gut that for once isn’t from his close proximity to the building.

Yuuri calls to him. The title is foreign to his tongue, so used to the informality Victor’s friendship has made him accustomed to. When he looks up, Father Feltsman’s face is in its perpetual state of unwelcomeness, his mouth pursed into a scowl and his eyebrows furrowed with grumpy pessimism. Yuuri had once heard that priests are easy to approach, genial role models their communities could count on for guidance of both faith and lifestyle. He can’t imagine the old man in front of him to be anything like that.

“You’re Hiroko’s boy,” Is Father Feltsman’s greeting, forgoing Japanese entirely, his English harsh and stilted. He sets his watering pot down when Yuuri is close  enough to identify the flowers the priest tends to as daisies.

Yuuri thanks his younger self with every bone in his body for taking such a keen dedication to studying the language. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Father,” he says. He introduces himself and goes to hold out his hand, but stops mid-motion when he see that the priest hands are gloved and covered in dirt. He drops his hand back to his side, flustered. “Has mass finished?”

“Your mother is doing confession with Father Nikiforov,” he says, answering Yuuri’s unspoken question. “You may wait for her inside, if you prefer.”

“Ah, thank you,” Yuuri says. “But I’d rather stay here.”

Father Feltsman squints. Yuuri attributes this to the sunlight of early noon getting into his eyes. “It’s hot.”

Yuuri’s throat is parched. It’s not, he’s sure, from the heat. “I’m fine.”

Father Feltsman blinks at him for another moment before picking up his watering pot again, turning his back to Yuuri to continue his business. Yuuri makes to go and wait in his car when the priest says, “I’ve noticed you hanging around here more often.”

Yuuri stuffs his hands in his pockets when they start to shake. “Figured I might as well.”

“And you’ve become acquainted with Nikiforov.”

“I have.”

Father Feltsman rolls his shoulders when straightening his back, a series of pops preceding the motion, and twists his face in discomfort. Yuuri steps forward to help, ashamed for not offering to help an elderly man labor over a small garden, but is shooed off with a dismissive wave.

“You should come in for mass one of these days. It would be good for you. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

“Maybe I would,” Yuuri mumbles, more to himself. He wipes away the sweat dripping into his eyes. “Thank you for the invitation, Father.”

The priest huffs. “It does not sound like you’re accepting the invitation.”

Where the hell is his mother? Yuuri chuckles stiffly, itching to leave. “Ah, I guess.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think this is for me.”

“What is?”

“Just —” He waves at the church. “This.”

Father Feltsman pauses and takes a good look at him: the jittery hands stuffed in his pockets, the twitching of his sweat-slick jaw. Yuuri must look like a mess; he certainly feels like one. One more minute of standing here, too close, he might melt, or explode, or — something.

“You seem sick, child,” Father Feltsman observes. There is something different in his stance, now: more unnerved, maybe, like he’s noticed something he shouldn’t have. “Get some rest.”

Yuuri smiles, close-lipped. “You’re right, Father, thank you. I don’t do well in the heat.”

 

\-----

 

The next time Yuuri meets Father Feltsman, the priest does a quick about-face and shuffles back into the weathered, oak doors of the church he had exited a moment before. Even from this distance Yuuri can see how jerky Father Feltsman’s movements are.

A part of Yuuri is appalled at the reaction; what had he done to scare off the priest that adversely? He had been nothing but cordial. Yet Yuuri immediately remembers who he is, who Father Feltsman is, and a wave of bitter acceptance over takes him.

Yuuri elects to wait in the car for his mother instead of at the church entrance. A prick of guilt touches him as Victor blinks back at him in bewilderment when he opens the church doors after mass, but he stays rooted in the driver seat of his car and speeds off without a word after his mother settles herself beside him.

Oh well. Bridges burned, bridges lost. Yuuri has never been the best at first impressions.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm forgoing replying to comments as to avoid accidentally spoiling anything. just kno that i see you and i love you. feel free to continue speculating below :)))


	11. Chapter 11

“Yuuri! Over here!” 

Yuuri follows Victor’s beckoning and finds him in the canned soup section of the wholesale store, peering at two cans with a thoughtful frown. Each hand holds a can so close to Victor’s nose he becomes cross eyed. Yuuri warms at the sight, his fingers tingling with the urge to take Victor’s hands and pull them away from his face.

_ Reading glasses, _ he thinks, making a mental note to look into the matter later, _ I should get him reading glasses. _

“This,” Victor says when Yuuri taps him on the shoulder, holding up the can in his right hand, “is a hundred yen less per can when bought in bulk. Twelve per case. But  _ this,” _ and he holds up the other hand, “is fifteen per case, with a can size two hundred grams larger than the first. And Yakov said we should stock up more this week since we ran out a bit quicker than anticipated last time. A bigger turnout, he said, which is good. So what should I go for?”

“Ah,” Yuuri says. He is not good with budgeting. He knows nothing about budgeting. Installments is the most he knows about good money-handling, and the concept doesn’t apply when considering what soup to buy. Mari is the one who helps Hiroko with Yu-topia’s finances; Yuuri sticks to what he’s good at and keeps out of the money part of business-owning. “Um. Both?”

Victor continues to squint at the can’s fine print before nodding and says, “Great idea! Help me get some of these into the cart, would you? Three of each, I guess.”

Victor, Yuuri infers, knows about as much of budgeting as him. He grins to himself as he stacks cases of soup into the cart. “Is this enough?” he asks when the cart is filled.

“More than,” Victor replies, bumping shoulders with him when he moves past him to reach into the aisle shelf again. “Thank you for the help. Will you be joining us this week?”

“What day?”

“Saturday. We’re planning on having it just outside the church this time. The weather’s been so nice lately.”

“Hm.” Outside. He can handle outside. The longest Yuuri’s been able to handle being outside the building has about an hour or so, with Victor’s company distracting him well enough from the sharp, burning  _ something  _ that pierced every organ in his body whenever he moved. He only left when Victor voiced his concern for Yuuri’s health, saying, “Are you hot? Do you need water? You’re sweating bullets, dear.”

In a last-ditch attempt, Yuuri tries, “I don’t think Father Feltsman would appreciate my, er. Presence,” and thinks back to their first meeting the month before.

Victor waves off Yuuri’s concern. “Ah, don’t mind the old fart. He just takes some getting used to.”

“And he hasn’t…” Yuuri trails off, himself not sure what he’s asking.

“Hasn’t what?”

“...Said anything? About me?”

“Like what?”

Yuuri shrugs, aiming for nonchalant. “Like. Something about me. I don’t know. Forget it.”

Victor says, genuine confusion coloring his reply, “What would Yakov know about you that I don’t?”

Yuuri, too mortified by the possibilities of what he could say, doesn’t answer.

When Yuuri remains silent, Victor says, “I would appreciate it if you came.” Then, oddly, he ducks his head to the side and says, partially to the floor, partially to Yuuri’s left hip bone, “I’ve not seen you as often as I’d like, as of late. Please come.”

Well, shit. Looks like Yuuri will, again, test how long he can withstand the flames of hell churning in his gut. With a sigh as deep as the ocean, Yuuri grabs the cart handle and says, “I’ll be there,” and selfishly revels in the pleased smile Victor shoots his way.

This is dangerous. It’s a thought he shouldn’t even begin to entertain, with how nonsensical and outlandish it is. Victor is a priest; Yuuri is Yuuri. Victor is kind and treats Yuuri as such because he is _ kind.  _ Not because Yuuri is anything special. How stupid of him, to think he even has a chance, is even deserving of one.

“Thank you,” Victor says, quiet, his smile softening into —  _ something. _ He places a hand on the handle as well, his pinky nearly, almost, barely brushing against Yuuri’s thumb, and guides them towards the cashier.

This is dangerous; Yuuri is well aware. But the honest, selfish, exhilarating truth is that he can no longer bring himself to care.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas :D


End file.
